“You Don’t Have To Be Afraid, Eds, It’s Just Me,” Steve Whispered, Covering Eddie’s Hand With

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Additional Tags: Hand Jobs, Virgin Eddie Munson, Finger Sucking, Outdoor Sex Summary:

The light is dappled through the trees as the sun gets lower. It’s still afternoon, which feels surreal. This day has gone on so long already, Steve’s started experiencing it like a, hell, what’s that word Robin loves, a montage? Flashes of events. For a long minute, they just stand, listening to the birds, and Eddie’s weirdly loud, deliberate breathing. “If you’re gonna kick my ass,” Eddie eventually says, low and serious, “wait ‘til after, okay?” Steve opens his mouth to ask, well, anything, but before he can, Eddie’s pinning him against the nearest tree and kissing him.

My second @steddiezine piece for the NSFW B-side edition, feat. boner revelations, finger sucking, and oh-god-we’re-all-gonna-die end of the world handjobs.

tw:// (fake) gun, threat of violence, not suicidal ideation but I'm kinda worried about michael's canonical lack of hesitation to jump into mortal danger*

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'give will a gun' you say. okay and what if He does.

(*if you don't think michael wheeler would do this i'm so sorry but see: stranger things 1x06)

(one day I’m) gonna cut it clear

have this sad stuff I wrote last night to try and cheer myself up :)

(Sorry for any mistakes this was copied and pasted from photos of notebook proper :/)

TW: mentions of past trauma and paternal abuse

The first time that Eddie had cut his hair short, he had been eight and messing around with his mom's fancy brass scissors—the ones where the blades were a beak She used him to cut string from her quilts, and to trim his uncle’s hair when the man wasn't out in his boat. Eddie had used them to chop his hair off, watching The long brown curls fall onto the rug that his dad had bought as a wedding present for his mom.

It was rough and scratchy. Probably cheap, too. 

He sat there on his knees, one hand curled around the scissors, the other feeling through his choppy strands, staring down at the loose hair on the floor.

His dad had hit him for that, grabbing him by the arms and shoving him into his room with a sharp “the hell were you thinking, girl?” before he had locked the door.

Eddie had cried all afternoon, begging to no one, because he was sorry and he didn’t want his hair short anymore. Because he had cut it to stop people from calling it pretty but he knew they still would. Because he didn’t want to be trapped in the suffocating Georgia summer heat that was seeping in through the windows anymore.

When his mom had come home from Auntie Lacy's house—not his real aunt, but she got sad if Eddie didn't call her that, seeing as how she was close enough to family as is—he still remembered how broken she had sounded, finding Eddie laying on the wood floor in just his underwear, tucked away in a corner, panting.

She had drawn him a cold bath, hushing him softly when he complained about the cool water.

“My baby,” She had whispered, her accent seeping through her words. It wasn't like the southern one that she put on for his dad—some kind of Eastern European that he couldn't remember. She never talked about where she came from

"Your hair was so pretty.”

Eddie had turned to press his face into his mom’s palm, whimpering, “Don’t want it short anymore. M’sorry, mama, m’sorry.”

She had fixed his hair after that—made it look more even and neat. She had let him curl up in her lap afterwards, the bird scissors on the coffee table and the chopped strands gone from the rug. Her thin fingers pet through his hair—but there really wasn’t anything to pet through anymore, just gentle touches smoothed over his scalp, kisses pressed to the lop of his head where he could nearly feel her lips.

"It will grow back, iubirea mea," She assured him, rocking him in her arms as his fingers dug into the folds of her white dress. She smelled like cinnamon and sunscreen, and that incense that Auntie Lacy always burned. "It will grow back, Edith.”

"Eddie," He had whispered, his words unsure and choked as he closed his eyes and waited for her to hit him—to lock him back in his room with his bolted windows and stiff mattress.

But she just kissed his hair again, taking nis hand and rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.

"Eddie," she agreed, holding him tighter when he sobbed and nodded, her fingers soft and warm against his. “My sweet Eddie. My baby." 

The second time his hair was cut he was thirteen. He had cried the whole way to the shop, gripping at the hair that fell just past his shoulders, like if he held on tight enough, it wouldn't have to go away.

“Stop crying,” his dad had snapped, his hands tight on the wheel of his Chevy truck. "If you wanna be a boy so bad, then fuckin’ act like one. Gonna look like one soon, too.”

He pulled Eddie out of the car. “This’ll show you. I ain’t raise my girl to be no fuckin’ queer,” he spat. “That was all that bitch’s doin’, ain’t it? Good thing she’s gone.”

“Don’t talk about mom like that,” Eddie sobbed, barely forcing the words out before he had stumbled backwards, face stinging and red from where his dad had hit him.

“She ain’t your mama no more. Ain’t that right, girl? Now fuckin’ get in there and tell the lady you want it all gone, or I ain’t letting you out of your room for a week,” his dad threaten, grabbing the collar of Eddie’s shirt. “A fucking week, you hear?”

That was the day that Eddie had left with Wayne for Indiana. His dad—no, Al, he wasn’t Eddie’s fucking dad anymore—hadn’t cared that Eddie had left. He had probably told all of his drinking buddies that “the other bitch is finally dead,” just so no one who might miss him in the town would go looking and bring him back. It would have only been Auntie Lacy. He still missed her sometimes.

Wayne hadn’t minded that Eddie didn’t want to wear the dresses or the skirts that he had packed from Georgia—took to buying him jeans when he had the money for something extra.

He had saved up for two years, working extra shifts and on holidays, so that when Eddie turned sixteen he could take him to the doctors and get him the stuff that made his voice drop. Eddie didn’t remember what it was called—hadn’t been able to hear the doctor over the ringing in his years from how hard his jaw was clenched as he tried not to cry in front of her and Wayne.

“Gonna get you fixed,” Wayne had said on the ride back to the trailer, and Eddie had laughed, but it sounded more like a sob.

“M’not a dog, Wayne.”

He had let Wayne do the shots, since anytime he tried to do it himself, his hands would snake too much.

“Haven't even done it yet, boy," Wayne muttered, his face annoyed, but his tone soft and sympathetic. "Just breathe."

Eddie did, but he had still flinched away again, just one more time.

The third time it was cut would be soon, if Eddie could just force himself to fucking man up and do it. He had just driven back from the antique shop down the road, bought those scissors he had seen nestled in between the old watercolor tins full of white chalk sticks and the black and white photos of men in long coats and hats—women with their hair up in a portrait studio, loggers standing on the planks stuck into trees as they worked, children sat on stools and chairs with dead-eyes.

They were bird scissors, brassy-brown and shining, still sharp. Like his mom used to have.

He looked out at the trailers he drove past. Two mail boxes until home. His stuff was in the back of his van, all the important stuff anyway, packed away into three boxes. Three.

And then he was home, into the house and then to the bathroom. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. And maybe he was crying. He was so fucking sick of crying.

His arms ached as he stretched the scars to reach up and grab a strand of hair, cutting. It was only an inch or two off the bottom, on a piece that he could easily tuck away and hide, but he still broke down—dropping the scissors and sobbing into his hands as he sank to the bathroom tiles on the floor.

He didn't want to cut his hair, but he had to. And he didn't know why he had to, which made him cry harder—hysterical sobs and gasps that no one but the nearly-empty shampoo bottles strewn sideways on the drain on the shower floor could hear.

He sounded like he was dying.

Maybe he was.

He Knew what it felt like to die — to have the skin ripped away from his insides, his body bloody and aching.

This hurt worse

It hurt worse than the hell he had been through.

It hurt worse than hearing Steve cry and break over him in the hospital, when his body was too sore to move—to cradle him gently like his mom used to do, brush a hand over his hair and whisper gentle names in a language that he didn’t know—a quiet "just breathe, my baby. Lucrul meu dulce. You can be sad, but don't let it choke you. You can cry, but don't let it make you forget how to live. How to breathe. How to smile."

Eddie pulled himself up, dragging himself out of the bathroom and over to the phone on the wall in the kitchen.

He spun the rotary, hearing it whir and click after each number. A number he had whispered to himself night after night until he was sure he wouldn't forget it. But now his brain was fogged as his breath caught on a whimper, and he couldn't remember if it ended in a six or a nine.

Six. He spun to a six and watched it move back, the phone gripped in both hands as it rang.

“Hello?” And Eddie sobbed again at the sound of Steve's voice.

"Hey," he choked out, willing his voice To be level and his breathing to be calm, but to no avail.

‘Baby," Steve breathed, and god, Eddie didn't think it was ever possible for him to grow tired of hearing Steve call him that. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Eddie shook his head as an instinct, his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw set, strained words coming out as he spoke again. "Need you to come over. Want to cut my hair.”

"Your hair?" Steve parroted back, his voice unbelievably soft, so soft that it made Eddie's chest ache a bit inside.

"Yeah."

Steve didn't ask why, even though he knew that Eddie's hair was important to him. He did offer to do it for Eddie—being the one out of the two of them who was more knowledgeable on the subject—but Eddie declined, saying that he needed to be the one to do it himself.

“I just need you to be here when I do it," Eddie whispered. He would have asked Wayne to sit with him, but Wayne was at work, and Eddie wasn't supposed to bother him unless it was an emergency.

He knew that Wayne would have come straight home if he had called to ask, though.

“I’ll leave now, alright?" Steve whispered. “Ten minutes, You go rest, get yourself a drink. Whatever you need to do baby, then I'll be there. Promise.”

“Okay" Eddie whispered, and even though Eddie wanted a reason to procrastinate this further, he hung up the phone, listening to the dial-tone sound off for a few minutes before shuffling over to the living room and pressing his face into a scratchy pillow. 

He tried to calm his breathing while he waited for Steve.

Should I make a part two? Maybe?? If you guys want??

Permanent taglist: @anne-bennett-cosplayer @estrellami-1 @here4thetrama @goodolefashionedloverboi

fairy porn crisis

for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt 'bookstore au' wc: 964 rated m cw: dirty talk, implied sexual content tags: bookshop owner eddie, steve is having a sexuality crisis but subtly, flirting, getting together, modern au

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"Thanks for covering for me, Wayne," Eddie said as he set his bag down behind the front desk, slightly out of breath from running from the bus. "Won't happen again."

"'S alright, son. Everything go okay with the counselor?" Wayne sipped from his mug, probably his fourth or fifth cup of coffee since he opened the shop that morning.

"Yep. Still on track to graduate in May."

Wayne's stipulation when he "sold" the bookshop to Eddie was that he still get his degree as backup. "Bookselling is a dangerous game and I won't have ya strugglin' if somethin' fails."

"Thatta boy," Wayne clapped him on the shoulder. "Been a slow morning. But your favorite customer is in the back."

Eddie felt his face heat up.

"He's not my favorite."

"Sure he isn't." Wayne rolled his eyes. "I'm off to get a beer with Dave. Call if you need me."

Eddie gave him a thumbs up as he checked over his emails, the one thing Wayne was terrible about doing when he was covering the store. There weren't many, never really were on Tuesdays.

He waited for Wayne to leave, the door chiming with his exit.

He jumped up and made his way around the counter, walking towards the back room hastily.

He found Steve sitting on the beanbag placed in the corner, book in his lap, face bright red.

Eddie squinted until he could see what book he was reading and nearly passed out.

His Ring was the first book in a series focused entirely on a group of queer mythical creatures. It was the only book of the series Eddie had read, and he'd only admit it under risk of death.

It wasn't that it wasn't good. It's just that it was basically porn.

And this one in particular focused on two male fairies, one who was gay and one who spent the entire first half of the book having a bisexuality crisis.

Steve was reading it with the prettiest blush on his face.

Steve, who up until this moment, passed as the straightest human being Eddie had ever met.

"Have you gotten to the part where Ereldi has to sit on Brelend's lap for an entire dinner?" Eddie asked.

Steve jumped and slammed the book closed, pushing it under his legs as if Eddie hadn't already called him out. "What are you talking about?"

"Stevie, I'm the last person to judge your reading habits. But I do have to ask why the sudden interest in queer fairy porn? You're usually reading sports memoirs and doing word searches."

In other words, 'are you interested in testing out your sexuality with me? I can pretend to be a mythical being if needed.'

"Just needed a change of scenery?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

Steve's blush deepened, and fuck, Eddie was about to be so unprofessional. Hopefully he wouldn't lose a customer over it, but it was a risk he had to take.

It's just that sometimes Eddie could swear Steve was watching him while he shelved books or swept the front room floors. And sometimes he caught him staring at him during his weekly storytime for kids where he gave out free books and cookies.

And Eddie always wanted to have Steve in his lap.

So.

"I." Steve refused to make eye contact, a sure sign that something was going on. "I just got curious. Heard someone talking about it and wanted to see if they were telling the truth."

"And were they?"

Steve didn't answer, so Eddie decided it was now or never.

"You know," he took a few steps closer to Steve. "I'm not usually one for those books. But there's something about the way they paint a very clear picture of how Ereldi rides Brelend in the forest that just draws me in." Another few steps. "Actually, Ereldi reminds me a bit of you."

Steve visibly gulped.

"But you wouldn't be interested in riding someone would you, Stevie? Prefer women to hop onto your lap and go for a ride?" Eddie's heart was racing.

And then it stopped completely when Steve gave the most unexpected answer he could have possibly given.

"I'd be interested in riding you."

Steve's wide eyes stared back at Eddie, daring him to make a joke, daring him to laugh.

Eddie wouldn't joke or laugh about this. He wasn't wasting this chance.

"Is the forest a requirement or could I go lock the front door and take you upstairs?"

Okay, so he couldn't not make a little joke.

"Forest sounds messy. Upstairs."

"Oh, I plan to make a mess of you regardless of location, sweetheart," Eddie leaned over Steve, foreheads touching, smirk growing as Steve's eyes closed. "Won't even have to get you hard, huh? The book did all the work for me."

Steve tilted his head back, lips puckering, searching for contact from Eddie's.

Eddie pulled away. "I close up in ten. You know the way upstairs?"

Steve's eyes blinked open as he nodded.

God, he was gonna be fun.

"You wanna be a good boy and wait for me up there?" Steve nodded and stood from the chair, wobbling slightly as he tried to gain his balance. "I want you naked in bed when I get up there, got it?"

"Um, I've never-" Steve started.

"Oh, sweetheart. I know. It's written all over you. I'm gonna take real good care of you, though. Better than anything you would read in that book."

"Eddie?"

"Yeah, sugar?"

"I really like you."

Eddie heard what he wasn't saying, knew without a doubt that he had to do this right or risk scaring him away from more than just the store.

"I really like you, too, Stevie." Eddie kissed his cheek. "You're in good hands."

"I know."

virgin eddie: just the tip

slut steve: you can put it all, I can take it 😘

virgin eddie: yeah well I can't 🥴

Eddie: "no no you don't understand I will literally come in under five seconds"

Steve: "that's okay baby, fill me up 🥰"

see where the night goes

for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt 'only one bed' rated m wc: 867 cw: some borderline somnophilia-esque behavior? tags: forced proximity, unintentional cuddling, idiots to lovers, love confessions, implied sexual content

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The full sized bed was covered in the ugliest plaid sheets Steve had ever seen, which was saying something since his own bed had been covered in ugly plaid sheets.

It looked like it would fall apart if Steve sat on it, let alone lay down on it.

"Bad news first or good news first?" Eddie asked as he walked into the room.

"There's more bad news? The broken down van and the storm knocking out the power everywhere but this inn isn't bad enough?" Steve responded, putting his hands on his hips as he watched Eddie sit on the bed.

Huh. Looked like it would manage to hold at least some weight, then.

"There's no other bed."

Steve shook his head.

"That's a joke."

"Nope," Eddie popped his lips together. "I did check the bathroom though and there's a decent shower with actual hot water, so. A win's a win?"

Steve groaned.

"Dude, this bed is not big enough for both of us," Steve gestured to the bed Eddie was sitting on. "It doesn't even look big enough for you."

"Sure it is. I slept in a twin until I was nearly 18. This will be like a California King!"

Steve knew he was trying to make light of the situation.

The van breaking down four hours from home on a night when the worst storm Indiana has seen in years decided to come through was only the beginning.

Eddie had lost his wallet somewhere between the van and his walk to a payphone, which meant he had to walk all the way back to the van without having called anyone. He was soaked and cold despite the air around them being relatively warm. By the time he got back to the van, someone had stopped to check on Steve, who had been panicking about Eddie getting lost. When they finally got towed to a repair shop, the mechanic told them he wouldn't be able to look at it until the morning and that from the sounds of it, they'd need to replace a handful of parts that were more money than either of them had with them.

A weekend trip to visit Robin at college had turned into an expensive nightmare.

And now, they would be sharing a very tiny bed.

Eddie and Steve had been closer lately, especially since Robin's classwork had made it impossible for her to visit much. But sharing a full sized bed?

"Well, guess I'll go shower. Maybe it'll help me feel less like everything is falling apart," Steve sighed.

"Okay, Eeyore."

Steve rolled his eyes, but ignored him.

They got ready for bed like they were dreading it, and maybe they were.

They both got into the bed, laying on their sides facing away from each other, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from the other.

The rain pelted the roof, and lightning flashed in the distance, but it seemed like the storm was almost past.

"Steve?"

"Hm?"

"Sorry about tonight."

"Nothing you could do, Eds."

He felt Eddie shift, but they still weren't touching.

"I guess. Still sorry though."

"Yeah, me too."

Sleep fell over them, the exhaustion of the day hitting them hard as soon as their bodies were horizontal.

-- -- -- -- -- --

Steve was sweating, which wasn't completely unusual, but definitely rare when he hadn't woken up screaming from a nightmare.

He had something, no, someone, in his arms.

Eddie.

He was curled around Eddie entirely, his arms around him, his hard dick pressing into his ass.

Eddie was still asleep, breathing softly, chest rising and falling slowly.

Steve needed to wake him up, or at least get up so he could put some space between them until his dick calmed down.

But just as he went to pull his arm away, Eddie turned around in his arms and smiled in his sleep.

And then his eyes fluttered open.

His smile faded.

"Sorry, let me-" As Eddie started to pull away, Steve tightened his arms.

"A minute."

Steve sometimes said he needed a minute like this when the kids were all yelling about things he didn't quite understand or when Robin had been rambling on for too long.

Sometimes, when he and Eddie were just hanging out, he would say it like he just had too much going on in his brain.

Like now.

Steve was looking at Eddie, really looking.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I might love you."

Eddie blinked back at him, mouth agape.

"You think you might?" His voice was quiet, hesitant.

"Yeah."

"And this is...because of us sleeping in bed together or...?"

"No. It's because when we have a shitty day that could turn into another shitty day tomorrow, I'm still just happy to be with you for it. I didn't...I guess it didn't really hit until now," Steve admitted.

Eddie gulped.

"And you think that's...love?"

"I think that's part of it. I also think I'd like to kiss you."

Eddie let out a small breath, shaky as Steve pulled him flush against his front.

"You would?"

"If that's okay."

"Is that all?" Eddie smirked, obviously implying that he could feel Steve's dick against his thigh.

"We'll see where else the night goes."

“Steve Harrington, right?” asks a voice from behind, startling him into standing again. Steve looks back to find a figure leaning against the brick wall next to the doors he just came through. The stranger is shrouded in darkness, standing under the awning, but Steve can spot the cherry red of his lit cigarette as he takes a drag. This interloper leans forward to stand fully, and saunters over to Steve.

“Oh,” Steve gasps quietly. This isn’t a stranger at all. Or, rather, maybe it is, since they’ve never really met before, but– “you’re Eddie Munson.”

Eddie Munson, standing before him in all his rockstar glory, smirks. His mane of dark curly hair cascades over his shoulders down to the middle of his back, the front of it held back into a messy bun, making him look disheveled, and showing off the many studs and rings dotting his ears. He looks a little mean, a little dangerous, his pale skin in stark contrast with the rest of him, faint freckles dotting the bridge of his large nose, a rosy blush dusting his cheeks, probably from having stood in the sun throughout the day. He’s mesmerizing to look at, and Steve feels a little starstruck in the presence of an actual rock legend, even though they’re the same age.

With a be-ringed hand, Eddie offers Steve a pack of cigarettes. “You look like you could use one, dude,” he says, his voice gravelly and a little sharp, not quite deep. Steve looks between Eddie’s huge, bottomless, dark brown eyes and the box in his hand, and feels tempted. He thinks about the vape in his trouser pocket, how unsatisfying it is to drag from it, the vapor of it coating the inside of his mouth with that rancid fake melon taste that makes him want to vomit sometimes. He misses actual smoke in his lungs, the burn of it coming through his nostrils, the warmth of it against his lips. He accepts the packet and looks at it.

“Gitanes?” Steve asks, one raised eyebrow. Eddie shrugs with a chuckle.

“Came here straight from Paris this morning,” he says by way of explanation. “And anyway, I’m not too fussy about it, as long as they’re not Marlboros.”

Steve snorts, picking up a cigarette and handing over the pack. Eddie then proffers a Zippo from his pocket, and flicks it, letting Steve lean in to light up his smoke. He does so, instantly intoxicated by the mixture of the scent coming off Eddie, something woodsy and musky, a little sweet and sharp, and the feel of that burn going into his throat for the first time. He nearly moans with the pleasure of it, but just about manages to keep it in for his modesty’s sake.

“You were right,” he says. “I needed that.”

Eddie laughs at that, a surprising snort giggle that’s a little high-pitched and a lot endearing. Steve feels like he’s having an out-of-body experience.

They stand in silence for a while, smoking together. Eddie is looking around them, taking in the views from the canal behind the Palazzo. Steve is looking at Eddie, taking in the striking figure he makes, the boldness of his clothes and the way he presents himself. He’s wearing what looks like a tuxedo jacket, because it’s short at the waist and tapers in, but this one is also beaded with some intricate designs and there’s some lace as well, which almost matches the tattoos that decorate the line of his chest. Which Steve can see because Eddie is bare-chested under the jacket, just two long silver chains as decoration, one of which has a skull pendant. His chest under the dark tattoos is as pale as the rest of him, hairless and firm. He seems skinny but in a lithe way, sinewy and slight, and his tiny waist is accentuated by the high-waisted trousers he’s paired the jacket with. They’re black and slim-cut, hugging his slim hips and his strong calves, ending just where his boots begin.

Eddie Munson is undeniably cool, and Steve feels underdressed next to him in his impossibly expensive Fear of God suit and Tom Ford sneakers.

“I hate these things, man,” Eddie says, breaking their silence. Steve looks back up into his eyes, startled out of staring at the little bat tattooed on one of his knuckles.

“Film festivals?” Steve asks.

“Yeah… well, I mean, this is my first film festival, so I mean more like this whole charade, you know?”

Steve nods. He definitely knows. “Yeah. It’s the worst part of the job, for sure.”

Eddie looks over at him, taking Steve in as he stares back, feeling trapped even with all the free space around them.

“So, hm,” Steve begins, nervously puffing out the last of his cigarette, putting it out under his stupid Tom Ford sneakers that pinch at the heel and are not as comfortable as his Stan Smiths, thank you very much, Robin. “This is your first festival? Were you in one of the movies, or?”

Before Steve even finishes his question, Eddie is laughing. His hair bouncing around his head as he shakes with giggles. It’s kind of adorable how his eyes sparkle with mirth.

“Seriously?” he asks, wiping the corner of one eye with a ringed finger. “Dude, I literally scored your movie.”

Deeply embarrassed, Steve feels his entire face heat up. He never watches his own films, so he doesn’t really know much about the finished product, though he admires and respects everyone that comes together to work in the pictures. It’s just– he hates watching himself on screen. It’s why he prefers theater, sometimes, honestly. But now, being met with evidence of his neglect, Steve feels shame.

But honestly, Steve didn’t even know Eddie composed scores. He knows Joyce likes to work with the same composer, this guy Murray Bauman who’s an absolute menace but churns out some beautiful music, so under the embarrassment, there’s surprise at this turn of events, that this incredibly famous rockstar is here in Venice to help promote a film he scored.

“Oh, no, I’m so–”

Eddie waves a hand. “Don’t worry, man, it’s cool. It’s my first score, and I’ve been trying to keep it on the down low, you know?”

Steve nods. “I can’t believe I didn’t know, though! My friend Robin loves your music, she would’ve lost her shit. I mean, maybe she did, I kinda ran away before the screening started. Hate watching films here,” he says with a shudder, making Eddie laugh.

“I get it. I’ve just got in this morning and I’m already overwhelmed. Too many suits for my taste.”

“Execs?” Steve offers, and Eddie nods in response, making a disgusted face as he stubs out his cigarette on the ground under his Docs.

“Turns out film execs are just as bad as the music guys. Maybe worse, who knows. Anyway, I’m probably gonna bail, actually.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, disappointed. It’s strange, this feeling of not wanting this moment to end. He feels suspended in time, like he’s in a snow globe, and the air around them is standing still, words floating away with the early evening breeze.

“You staying?”

“Oh, hm. Yeah, probably. Everyone’s staying at my hotel, so if I want to avoid the paparazzi, I should stay until later,” Steve says, further disappointed at what awaits him. He just wants to lie down, maybe take a bath. He can’t stand here all night talking to Eddie, looking at Eddie, as much as he wants to. Tomorrow afternoon, he’ll be heading back to New York to start rehearsals for a play, and just the thought of his schedule for the next week is making the panic rise within him again, the same panic that had him flying through the kitchen and out into this dock with Eddie Munson.

Eddie, who’s looking at him with a glint in his eyes, and Steve can see wheels turning under all that hair.

The door to the kitchen opens again, and one of the cooks comes out, heading to a dark corner for their own smoke break. The interruption breaks the heavy tension in the air, though Eddie is still staring at Steve, a contemplative look in his eyes. Then turns and walks back towards the building.

Steve follows him, through the kitchens and into the main building, where the sudden loudness hits him like a sack of bricks, and he needs to brace himself so he doesn’t topple over from the overstimulation of noise. It’s all a bit too much, and maybe the paparazzi in front of his hotel are an okay price to pay for the pleasure of leaving this nightmare of a situation.

“Hey, Steve?” Eddie asks. Steve turns to face him, squinting against the headache forming in the middle of his forehead. “How do you feel about a nightcap?”

“A nightcap?”

“At my hotel,” he elaborates, more demure than before, when they were outside. Out there, Eddie was bold and bright, but now they’ve reached this large room filled with nonsense and pretentiousness, all that brightness has dimmed a bit, which is heartbreaking to witness. “I gotta head out before lunch tomorrow, so my hotel is close to the train station, all the way across town.”

Steve considers it. Leaving this terrible party early, getting to spend more time with Eddie Munson, maybe bunking with him if it gets too late. He can order a car to collect him in the morning, and his flight back is not until late afternoon anyway. There’s a stirring in his gut that Steve hasn’t felt before, it’s sharp and red hot, and addictive like the smoke in his lungs, and it sharpens when he looks at Eddie, with those wild eyes and big hair and sharp collar bones jutting from under the delicate lace of his jacket. Munson talks of freedom, and Steve doesn’t even hesitate before nodding furiously, his heart racing with the excitement of it.

Munson grins. “Meet me by the side exit in fifteen?”

“Yeah, yes. Fifteen.” Steve nods again, and watches as Eddie marches away, no doubt to put their dastardly escape plans into motion. A warmth settles in Steve’s chest as he watches Eddie walk away, but he’s got no time to spare, so he forces himself to snap out of it and find Robin.

[read j'adore venise here]

haven't got a penny, haven't got a dime || rated t || 1.3k words

[read on ao3]

for the one and only, my dearest @judasofsuburbia <33 i simply could not resist writing a little cowboy wild west something for your birthday!! hope you like it!! shoutout to lou @cheatghost for beta reading fic and title inspired by a bank robber's nursery rhyme by goodnight, texas

"I need to make a withdrawal from my father's safety deposit box," Steve says, sliding a crisp sheet of paper across the polished counter to the teller.

The man eyes him over a pair of reading glasses, skimming over the paper, lingering on his dusty boots and jacket. "I'll have to get the bank manager…"

"Please do," Steve waves him off and leans an elbow on the counter.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as the two converse in hushed tones, throwing pointed looks his way. But the only thing they'll find on that sheet are the account numbers and precise signature of one Richard Harrington, detailing exactly what should be given into the trustworthy care of his son.

or: steve walks into a bank...

[keep reading on ao3]

☀️🕊️🧺🐂🌾

s e e i n g d a y l i g h t

When i saw cowboy au, i knew i Had to dive in🔥. ayeayeayes 's new work is Spectacular and i'm so Excited for you all to welcome it!! @subeddieweek

Good Enough

Pairing: Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.000

Read on AO3

So, Edwin is in love with him.

Edwin loves him, and Charles genuinely never even considered the possibility of this, of them, before.

It might be because, back when he was still alive, his dad would have beaten the notion right out of him, but then again, his dad has been wrong about most things in his life, so fuck him.

So, Edwin is in love with him.

It’s… quite flattering, actually. To think that Edwin, who is beautiful and intelligent and educated, who can recite his favourite Keats poem by heart just as easily as tell you his favourite Mozart aria (it’s Konstanze, dich wiederzusehen from Die Entführung aus dem Serail, Edwin told him that, years ago), who knows spells and can read ancient Aramaic, who is the kindest, most brilliant person Charles has ever known, would love him.

Now, Charles knows that he is easy enough on the eyes, good with words and people, and has one hell of a swing if you give him a cricket bat, but the only reason he knows any Mozart aria is because Edwin showed them to him.

The only reason he knows Keats’ poetry is because Edwin would read them to him on slow, warm summer nights in the early 2000s.

The only reason he is here, is because Edwin let him stay.

So, it’s special, having someone like Edwin love him.

It’s fucking terrifying.

Because Charles is now holding the heart of the person he loves most in the world, and it’s a bigger responsibility than any he has ever taken on before.

He can’t fuck this up.

The thing is that nothing changes between them at all.

Charles isn’t sure if he expected it to, but what he is relatively certain about is that it most likely should. After all, it was an unexpected revelation, probably to both of them, definitely a shift in their relationship.

And yet, when Charles looks at Edwin, who is reading a novel whose name he cannot make out, curled up on the couch they have gotten for Crystal (and sometimes Jenny), he doesn’t feel different at all.

It’s still Edwin, his best mate, the boy that read to him when he was dying so he wouldn’t have to do it alone, who tries to smile whenever Charles shows him a new song he has fallen in love with, and occasionally fails hilariously at, who Charles would protect with his life and his soul and his cricket bat, no matter how high the stakes.

I love you the most, Charles thinks to himself, and smiles, because nothing about that has changed, either.

He has told Edwin that they would have forever to figure out the rest, and it’s the truth, technically speaking.

However, Charles doesn’t, because it’s Edwin and he has given Charles his heart and he doesn’t deserve to wait that long for an answer. It would be cruel in a way Charles cannot comprehend, and if there is anyone who doesn’t deserve more cruelty in their existence, it’s Edwin Payne.

The only problem with that fact is that Charles doesn’t know the answer.

He’s been thinking about it a lot, but the thing is, he’s never been in love before.

So he doesn’t really know what to compare his feelings for Edwin to, because, of course, they are greater than for anyone else, of course, Charles would sacrifice anything and anyone for Edwin, especially himself, of course, making Edwin smile is his favourite part of any day.

Because he loves Edwin, everything about him.

But is he, could he be, in love with Edwin?

Charles doesn’t know, nor does he know how to find out. It’s not like he hasn’t tried, but every novel he has paged through, every silly romcom he has watched, has been talking about butterflies in someone’s stomach, of seeing them in some new, golden light, of hearing violins playing when they speak, and Charles very much doubts that Edwin feels any of those things for him.

Otherwise he wouldn’t raise his eyebrows like that when he thinks Charles is being an insufferable little prick, he wouldn’t roll his eyes and tell him, “I know, Charles, you have told me a thousand times before”, whenever Charles brings up how much he wishes he could still taste things, or groan whenever Charles attempts to convince him to just try and let him put on some eyeliner.

(It’s just that Edwin would look so pretty like that, some kohl to bring out the warmth of his eyes, making them stand out even more than they do anyway.)

So all this talk of violins and sparkles and the need to give someone roses, if Edwin doesn’t feel that when he says he is love with Charles, then it’s pointless to consider, and anyway, those books and films describe people who have just met, not those who have known each other for twice as long as they were alive.

Maybe if he had just met Edwin, he would be hearing violins, Charles definitely thinks it’s possible.

Especially the violins in Konstanze, dich wiederzusehen.

“I just need some time alone”, Crystal says, putting on her jacket, while already opening the door. “And I am aware that that is a novel concept for the two of you, since you are basically attached at the hip, but for me, an alive human being, it’s really important to occasionally have a second of peace between almost dying and whatever we will have going on next.”

She stops to put on her shoes, almost falling over in the process, and Charles and Edwin share a look, a smile, and Charles thinks, I love you the most.

“Don’t follow me”, Crystal tells them, especially Charles, and it’s kind of cute, actually. “I’m going to get the biggest frappuchino Starbucks is legally allowed to serve me and I will not tolerate any ghostly company while doing that.”

Charles holds up his hands, still grinning, indicating his surrender in a battle he wasn’t aware they were fighting, and Crystal gives him a single nod before she walks out.

“So”, Charles starts, and turns around to face Edwin, who is already looking back, “what do we think this frappuchino she was talking about, is?”

Actually, there is one thing that changes between them after all.

It’s subtle, at least at first, but looking back, Charles isn’t quite sure how he managed to miss it for the few weeks that have passed. Maybe it was the shock of almost being forced to move on to the afterlife, the chaos of getting Crystal and Jenny settled in London, the fact that it seems to increase only slowly, incrementally.

Edwin has never been a physically affectionate person, completely contrary to how Charles is.

If it had been up to him alone, he would have hugged Edwin much more often, would have leant against him when they were looking through a book together, would have held hands to keep them from losing each other when things got hectic. But it wasn’t, and that was fine, so it was occasional touches instead, a hand on Edwin’s upper arm, his back, ruffling his perfect hair when he was doing something kind of dumb, kind of cute.

(That one always made him duck his head and smile, glance up at Charles through his lashes and allow a second to pass before he started fixing his hair again.)

Now, however, it’s… it’s not getting better, because there was nothing wrong with it in the first place, Edwin’s aversion to physical affection, but it is changing now.

It’s less that he initiates it, more than he allows it to happen more frequently. Sitting down next to Charles on the sofa instead of taking the armchair, allowing Charles’ hand to linger on his arm for a moment longer than expected, letting their shoulders brush when walking.

He’s not asking to be touched, not really, but something about it still makes Charles irrationally happy as soon as he catches onto it. Because Edwin deserves all the affection the world can offer, and Charles will always be here to give it to him.

So he reaches out in the morning, when the sun has just started to rise, and puts his hand on the curve of Edwin’s shoulder, right where it meets his neck, and points out that the clouds are turning the most beautiful pink. He throws his legs across Edwin’s lap when they settle down on the sofa at night, a book in Edwin’s hands, the tablet Crystal made him buy in Charles’. He pushes his fingers through Edwin’s hair, not to ruffle it, but just to pretend he can feel its softness against his skin.

It makes Edwin duck his head again, give Charles a little smile when looking up, and Charles thinks, I love you the most.

And thinks, I want to love you the most in every way you will have me.

“Jenny, I have a question”, Charles starts as soon as he has phased through the walls of her new butcher shop. It’s to her credit that she hardly reacts; the first time he had done that, she had thrown a meat cleaver right through his head. “What do you know about love?”

Instead of a knife, Jenny just throws him a weary look, an eyebrow elegantly arched. It makes Charles think of being scolded by the headmistress, a sensation that should be much more unpleasant than it is.

“Nothing”, Jenny answers and brings her cleaver down with a dull thud, separating flesh from bone, before looking up at Charles again. “No one ever knows anything about love and if they try to tell you otherwise, they are lying.”

There is a certain sense of finality in her voice and Charles knows he has been dismissed, no detention this time, but don’t dare to push it.

“Great”, he mutters, more to himself than to Jenny, “that doesn’t help me at all.”

“You should look at this, Charles”, Edwin says and turns the book towards him.

It’s late at night, Crystal having long since gone home and they are sat on the sofa, shoulders touching while they do their research. A new case has come up, and Edwin is trying to learn more about ancient Celtic runes, while Charles is pouring over a map of London’s underground; now, he looks up and at the page Edwin is showing him.

“We could add this to your bat”, Edwin explains, “it’s a rune for physical strength. Supposedly, it doubles whatever force you put into a hit.”

“Edwin, mate, are you trying to tell me I need help with hitting people?”

Charles is grinning, obviously teasing, and Edwin just scoffs, rolls his eyes.

And that is what Charles means; this isn’t birdsong and candle light, this is just how they always have been. This is what makes them them, even.

“Charles, do be serious”, Edwin replies, but there is affection in his voice, there is love. “I am perfectly aware that you can hit things very well, but that doesn’t mean that hitting them even better wouldn’t be an advantage.”

“I know. This is brills”, Charles concedes, and on a whim, nothing more than that, presses a quick kiss to Edwin’s cheek.

For a moment, he almost expects Edwin to admonish him, because this isn’t exactly something that they do, but instead he stares at him, before he ducks his head; Charles isn’t sure how he knows this, but if Edwin could, he would be blushing.

And it does something to Charles’ head, the thought that he would be able to make Edwin blush. It makes him stop dead in his tracks, look at Edwin not like he is seeing him for the first time, but like he could be looking at him for the rest of his existence and not get bored of it.

“Do you wanna do the honours of carving it? Since you were the one who found the thing?”, he asks just to say something, aware that his voice sounds slightly off, and thinks, I love you the most. I love you the most. I love you the most.

“Very well done, Charles”, Edwin tells him and clasps a long-fingered hand on Charles’ shoulder, peering down at the leprechaun he knocked out clean with his bat a few seconds before.

The rune really makes it pack a punch.

“I don’t think this will pose any further problems”, Edwin continues even as he crouches down to examine the passed-out form crumpled on the ground. He prods at it gently.

“It fucking better”, Charles replies, resisting the urge to pull Edwin away from the leprechaun, just in case that touching it might have some kind of magical side effect. “And if not, I’ll punch it right back out. I’ve got an Edwin Payne-improved bat after all, it won’t stand a chance.”

Just for good measure, he twirls the bat around once, twice.

This has always been one of his favourite parts of the job, the simple pleasure of knocking someone out before they get the chance to hurt his friends.

Edwin looks up at him from where he is crouching, and Charles grins at him, metaphorical adrenaline running through his non-existent veins still. He would punch out a bear if Edwin asked it of him.

Before he can say anything else, though, Crystal clears her throat from behind him, sounding decidedly less impressed.

“That’s really cool, yeah. New bat, I get it”, she says, walking around Charles so she, too, can see the unconscious leprechaun. “But you do remember that we actually wanted to talk to him, right?”

They get to talk to the leprechaun in the end, who turns out to be about as obnoxious as expected, but does admit to stealing the heirloom they were looking for for his pot of gold.

He even gives it back, but only after Charles has started twirling his bat again.

“And another satisfied customer”, Charles comments as they return to the agency, flinging his backpack into the corner.

“Client, you mean”, Edwin corrects, but still smiles at him, and pats the space next to him as soon as he sits down on the sofa. Charles flings himself down without a second thought, legs landing somewhere across Edwin’s laps, one of his hands settling on Charles’ ankles.

This is new, at least to some extent, and Charles loves it, the feeling of Edwin’s fingers on him. It feels right, somehow.

I just really love you the most, he thinks.

“Yeah, whatever”, he concedes and looks over at Crystal, who is watching them with something in her eyes that Charles cannot quite place. Not bad, per se, just…. Strange. “Doesn’t sound that good though, does it? And anyway, the most important thing is that they’re satisfied, right? Passed on right to the afterlife, no worries keeping them here any longer.”

“As if it’s only worries that could keep one here”, Edwin replies, his tone as dry as the desert, but making Charles laugh anyway. “We should be the best example for that.”

“You know what I mean!”, he shoots back, “It isn’t like with us, is it? Don’t think that the client was kept back by meeting the love of their life, were they now?”

It spills from his lips like nothing, without Charles thinking about it for a single second.

He’s still laughing, but Edwin’s fingers have stopped where they were gently stroking across the arch of his foot, and then Charles realises it, and for the first time, hears silence.

For the first time since they got back from Hell, they part when Crystal leaves.

The conversation had been stilted after Charles’...slip up? blunder? confession? and although it had been obvious that all three of them had been trying, it had been impossible to get things back on track.

So, Charles leaves with Crystal, telling Edwin he will walk her home, although that is something he has never done before, and Crystal lets him, although he is fairly certain she wouldn’t under normal circumstances.

She doesn’t need anyone protecting her from the city she grew up in after all.

“How do you know you’re in love with someone?”, Charles asks after they have walked in silence for a few minutes. He can’t think of a way to cushion the question, how to make it less awkward to ask, so he doesn’t bother with it at all.

“This is about Edwin?”, she asks, seemingly to clarify, and Charles nods mutely, not looking up at her. “I’m not sure. Especially not when it comes to the two of you. For Edwin, I could have seen from miles away that he was in love with you, even if he hadn’t reacted like he did when we first met. For you… you love him, anyone with eyes could see that, but if you’re in love with him, I think you have to figure that out yourself.”

“Do you know how it feels, though? Being in love?”, he asks, just in case Crystal can at least tell him that.

“I’m not sure”, she answers after a moment, then links their arms together, pulling Charles closer. “I think that’s different for everyone. But I’m sure you’ll be able to figure out what it feels like to you if you let yourself.”

He walks Crystal home, but when she asks if he wants to stay, Charles just shakes his head.

Edwin is back at the agency, and Charles isn’t sure exactly in which state, what he is thinking, and Charles cannot allow that. At least not for long.

What he does, though, is taking a little detour to the park not too far from their building.

It’s the first time he really pays it any mind, even if it’s most likely not the first time he’s been there, but now, Charles lays down on the grass, looking up at the night sky.

London is too bright for him to see many stars, but there’s a few of them; Edwin would surely be able to point out a constellation or two.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it.

Edwin isn’t here, and yet he is with Charles anyway, always, in every moment of his existence.

Sighing, he scrubs a hand down his face. There’s no way around it, it has to be now, and it has to be the right answer, the one he truly means, because Edwin deserves nothing but that.

No false hope, and no heartbreak that might be taken back along the line.

So, he thinks of Edwin, of his elegant hands and the swagger in his walk when he feels confident, of the colour of his hair and of his eyes, of the curves and slopes and sharp cuts of his face.

He loves that face, has seen it with every possible expression painted across of it, and still loves it.

The stars above are dim and partly hidden behind the clouds, so Charles lets his eyes slip shut, and imagines coming home to the agency and taking Edwin’s hands in his.

They would be just a little smaller than his own, his fingers slender and yet so capable, and if he could still feel, Charles is convinced they would feel cool against his skin.

He imagines pulling Edwin close and holding him like he has always wanted to, burying his face against the side of Edwin’s neck and pretending he can breathe in his scent. Having Edwin sneak his arms around Charles’ waist and cling to the back of his jacket, like he doesn’t want to let go again.

In his imagination, it feels a little like the hug they shared after being granted asylum on Earth, but it would be entirely different, because it wouldn’t be out of relief.

Instead, it would be just them, embracing to feel the other close.

And he thinks of pulling back from the hug, seeing Edwin smile and kissing the curve of his lips, nipping at them until he can make Edwin laugh and teasing his mouth open to lick into it.

It would be like kissing Crystal, kind of, only that-

Only that it wouldn’t be like that at all.

He runs back to the agency, as fast as his spectral feet can carry him.

Edwin is sitting right where he left him, almost like he hadn’t moved an inch since Charles walked out of the door, and he hopes to all deities he can think of that it isn’t so; knows, at the same time, that it is.

“Hi”, Charles greets, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and Edwin nods and gives him a smile, brittle and unsure and hopeful, all at once.

“Hello, Charles. Did Crystal get home safe?”, he asks, and it’s so painfully polite it makes Charles cringe.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure, of course she did”, he responds, trying to figure out how to begin saying what he needs Edwin to know, but Edwin beats him to it.

“Did you mean it?”, Edwin asks, breathes out the question like he still has lungs to do so, and it’s in that moment that Charles is more certain of his answer than anything else he has ever thought, because Edwin sounds small, sounds vulnerable and breakable and yet so fucking hopeful, and Charles wants to pick him up and cradle him against his chest and never let go again.

“Yes”, he says, and it’s sunrise and violins and bouquets of roses all at once, it’s a single word that changes the world around them. “Kind of. Let me explain.”

And Edwin nods, sits back with his hands in his lap and all Charles can think about is that those same hands belong holding a book, resting on the top of Charles’ legs, which should be flung carelessly across Edwin’s lap, just because Charles wants to be near him.

“You’re the love of my life, no matter what”, he starts, crouching down in front of Edwin so he can take his hands; they look so lost. “You have been for decades. I love you the most of anything in the world. I will always love you the most. Every time I look at you, it’s just that on repeat in my head. I love you the most.”

He ducks his head, laughing softly, because it sounds silly now that he says it out-loud, but when he looks back up, there are tears brimming in Edwin’s eyes, making them shine even brighter.

His lips are parted and for just a moment, Charles thinks about kissing them.

“And you know, I still can’t say that I am in love with you back, because you don’t deserve a lie, but what I can say, what I can promise you, is that I could fall in love with you. And that I want to. More than anything.”

A single tear rolls down Edwin’s cheek, glistening in the dim light, and Charles looks at him, and thinks, I do. I am. I love you the most.

“Could that be enough?”, he asks, squeezing Edwin’s hands in his. “At least for the start?”

And Edwin nods so frantically that more tears spill over, wetting his face, and Charles can’t help but laugh; how strange to think that making Edwin cry for once is not his biggest fear, but something that fills his heart with joy to the point of bursting.

“Okay. Brills, that’s-”, he replies, and can’t keep himself from smiling so wide it would hurt if he was still alive. “So, um. Can I kiss you? I really want to kiss you right now.”

Again, Edwin nods, and he is smiling, too, looks so happy that Charles thinks heaven must be overrated, because nothing in the whole of existence could compare to this.

He thinks of the scene he pictured in the park of holding Edwin close and how much in pales in comparison to this, to holding Edwin’s hands and watching him glow with love and hope and warmth.

And leans in to find out if the same is true for kissing him.

(It is.)